An elegant woman in red stood within the whirlwind, her raven-dark hair whipping around her throat and her skirts lashing behind her. Threads of shimmering sorcery laced the air in front of her, faintly malevolent, as she bore down upon a man in the center of the devastation, a man on his hands and knees, screaming in pain...
"Morgana," Drake called.
She looked up, an expression of malicious delight fading swiftly, as she noticed the Prime. Then her gaze slid past Drake, toward Lucien. And she smiled. It was an expression that turned his blood to ice, for she was truly pleased to see him there, and he couldn't think why.
"Hello, Drake. It seems you've brought me a present." As Morgana turned, something moved behind her, sagging against the wall—a mess of blue skirts and dark hair with blood spattered all down her.
"Eleanor!" Drake cried out.
Lucien hauled him back as his father took a step forward. He alone seemed to recognize the danger in the room. Cracks slithered up the plaster as a brutal pressure choked the air, but it seemed like no one else saw them. Morgana and Drake were both too busy with each other.
"Drake," he warned.
Sebastian had lifted his head as Morgana's attention changed focus. His eyes were pure black with power, and for one eerie moment, it felt like Lucien could read his mind. Sebastian's face calmed, as if he'd been wrestling with his own conscience, but now a decision was made. It was accepted. The world went silent. The moment of calm before the storm.
One second that felt like forever. Lucien stepped forward, moving through air that felt like jelly, one hand flung outward, trying to stop it in time.
"Don't!" Lucien screamed, tearing the reins away from his father for a second and flinging up the strongest ward he knew. The sudden ripple in the air tore away his words as Sebastian simply... detonated.
Ianthe threw herself forward and clung to the edge of the second floor, her legs dangling in midair as the staircase sheared out from under her. Slamming the gauntlet onto the floorboards, she tried to find purchase, but her hands were slipping, slipping...
"Help!" she screamed as part of the ceiling gave way, dropping behind her into the foyer. The chandelier landed with a fierce crash, spewing glass all across the tiles.
The world wouldn't stop moving. The first ripple had almost torn her feet out from under her, but she'd felt it grow as power radiated outward. An earthquake that gained magnitude, the further away it swam...
A pair of pale silvery skirts swished into view. A young woman staggered out of the shadows, her hair a shining gold halo of curls around her head, and a linen blindfold covering her eyes. "Hello?" the girl called. "Where are you?"
"Here!" Ianthe gasped, trying to drag herself to safety. Nails wrenched themselves up out of the timber floorboards as the house shuddered.
The young woman moved with unerring accuracy, scrambling onto her hands and knees and grabbing Ianthe by the gauntlet. "I wish this bloody floor would stop shaking!"
The stranger was taller than she was, but lighter of figure. Her skirts slipped on the floors as she tried to haul Ianthe up.
"Me too." Ianthe kicked a boot up onto the edge of the staircase, and with an enormous wrench of effort, managed to roll herself onto the second floor. The pair of them sprawled there in a heap of skirts, panting, as the entire building shook and shivered.
The worst thing was, she could feel the torrent of power building. Something was barely containing it, but that something was about to give, and when it did...
"We've got to stop him," the girl gasped.
"Who?"
"Sebastian." The young woman turned around, stumbling against the wall. "I can see more sparks, but I don't think they're strong enough to hold back the storm. I don't even think I am, but I have to try! You have to take me to him!"
It sounded like utter gibberish, but Ianthe darted another glance at the blindfold. If she wasn't mistaken, that was a sure sign of a Cassandra. Taking the girl by the arm, they staggered along the hallway. "What's your name?"
"Cleo Sinclair."
Sinclair, Sinclair... Where had she heard that name? Then she realized. The Earl of Tremayne was a Sinclair. Ianthe stopped in her tracks, almost wrenching the girl off her feet. The shaking of the floor drove both of them into the wall.
"I mean, it's Mrs. Cleo Montcalm now, I suppose. I keep forgetting that I'm married. And stop looking at me like that. I can almost feel your eyes upon me. I'm sure you've had dealings with my father, but right now, there's no time. Sebastian's going to destroy half of London if I don't get to him in time."
"Sebastian's your husband?" A piece of plaster tore itself in half along the ceiling, and Ianthe dragged Cleo forward, trying not to fall as that section of the roof crashed to the floor. One by one, windows were shattering somewhere in the building.
"Yes. You would be Miss Martin, I presume?"
"How did you know?" Suspicion reared its head.
"I saw you. This whole affair set my precognition off, and I kept hearing your name and seeing your face. It was so prominent it was blinding the rest of my senses. I knew I had to find you. You're the only one who can stop this, I think."
